


Lookout

by INMH



Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2019 [23]
Category: Days Gone (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Strong Language, Trapped, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 09:01:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20079607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: Pre-game. A horde passes through O’Leary Mountain; Deacon and Boozer have a bad time.





	Lookout

There’s a horde on O’Leary Mountain.  
  
A blanket of freakers scratches at the ground, swiping at one another and raising their disfigured, disgusting faces to the sky to shriek at nothing.  
  
“How long do you think they’ll stay?” Boozer grunts. They’ve kept all lights out in the tower, and if they had the extra material, they’d cover the windows to ensure the horde wouldn’t see them moving up above. Deacon doesn’t think their vision’s that good, but this would be a bad time to find out the hard way that he’s wrong. If the horde is triggered, if they realize that there’s something worth attacking within the confines of the tent and the tower, the fence won’t stop them: They’ll ram themselves against it until it falls and swarm the tower and then all Deacon and Boozer will have left is a few precious seconds to blow their own brains out.  
  
That’s not how Deacon wants to go out, if he can help it.  
  
“Hopefully not for long.”  
  
[---]  
  
O’Leary Mountain and its lookout tower had been perfect: It was difficult to climb up, it had a fence that was intact and easily defensible. From the tower, they could see anyone approaching, they could see the smoke from campfires from drifters or Rippers or Anarchists who’d set up shop too close.  
  
Most importantly, it was isolated. The closest camp was Copeland’s, and even then it was far enough away for comfort.  
  
“I don’t know why they even needed a fire tower here,” Boozer muttered when they’d first scoped out the place. “I don’t think Oregon’s ever been dry enough for a fire to start. It does nothing but piss down rain in the Northwest.”  
  
“Eh, there have been a few,” Deacon had responded, brain humming painfully with memories of Sarah telling him about the effect of wildfires on the local flora. “Besides, we’re right next to California and that shit is wildfire heaven.”  
  
“Please never remind me how close we are to California. I’ve spent almost every day of my life trying to pretend it doesn’t exist.”  
  
(Deacon does not, for the life of him, know what Boozer’s hang-up with California is, but it’s real fun to get under his skin about it.)  
  
Keeping away from others is part of the new normal, the new way of survival for them. Deacon and Boozer trust one another implicitly, and almost no one else; they can’t afford to. Most people assume their campsite changes due to their drifter lifestyle, and neither Deacon nor Boozer ever corrects them. The less people that know where they sleep at night, the better.  
  
The new world is full of people you don’t want sneaking up on you at night.  
  
(The old world was too, but now these people are the majority.)  
  
[---]  
  
“I fucking hate freakers.”  
  
Boozer’s eyes roll shut. “You don’t say?”  
  
“I just want to fucking Molotov them all.”  
  
“You’re welcome to try,” Boozer snorts. “But don’t expect me to jump in and yank your dumb ass out of the fire.”  
  
(He would, though. He always did, even when it was Deacon’s own dumb fault that hell was coming down on his head.)  
  
They’re sitting beside one another at the section of window facing the main gate, where the freakers still stumble around in the early-evening darkness. It’s been over twenty-four hours, and they haven’t left.  
  
That’s not normal.  
  
Usually they go back to their hovels in the daytime.  
  
“Maybe someone smoked ‘em out?” Boozer suggests. “Like, damaged it and made it unlivable?”  
  
“Or,” Deacon mutters, “Maybe some dumb sonofabitch pissed them off and managed to get away. Maybe he led them right to our damn doorstep.”  
  
“Certainly a possibility.” Boozer sighs. “I have to piss,” He whispers tiredly.  
  
They have an outhouse that they obviously can’t use at the moment.  
  
Deacon’s seriously considering finding some wood and covering the fence in it when this is over, just to avoid this complication if this ever happens again.  
  
“Move slow and piss over the railing,” Deacon grunts. “I’ll watch the horde and make sure they don’t spot you.”  
  
“Thanks, brother.”  
  
[---]  
  
The sounds keep them awake.  
  
Every time Deacon manages to nod off, the guttural, animalistic sounds from below startle him awake. Every single time, he’s struck with a heart-stopping panic, thinking that the freakers have somehow gotten over the gate and into the yard and then maybe up the stairs to the tower.  
  
The weapons are locked away now, because last night he’d grabbed for his gun half awake and Boozer had to tackle him before he could fire it. One loud noise can fuck them both right into their graves, and it terrifies Deacon that he came so close to killing not only himself, but Boozer too. Deacon doesn’t mind the thought of dying as much as he should, but he can’t stomach the thought of getting Boozer killed.  
  
Deacon stares at the ceiling, wide-eyed and exhausted and hungry. They haven’t done a run in days and their food supply is getting low. They’ve had to ration it accordingly, and Deacon’s stomach is gnawing on itself to cope. They weren’t exactly anticipating being trapped on the mountain by a goddamn horde; even in the winter they’d at least be able to hunt.  
  
Boozer’s not snoring, so Deacon can tell he’s awake too. “You still up?”  
  
“Yeah, something about having a horde of flesh-eating monsters beneath my window keeps me from getting too sleepy.”  
  
“Same.”  
  
The worst part is, Deacon would think he’d get used to it by now; but in reality he just _can’t._ He’s been dealing with the freakers for almost two years, has almost been killed by them countless times, and he just _can’t_ get used to it. He can’t dismiss their noises as ‘not gonna hurt me’ because if one of them manages to hop the fence and climb the tower, he and Boozer need to be on top of it right then and there.  
  
_EYAAAAAAGH!_  
  
Deacon and Boozer both sat up. “Screamer?” Deacon whispered.  
  
“Yeah,” Boozer rasped.  
  
They slid out of their bunks and crawled to the window, staring down into the darkness below.  
  
Thank God, the Screamer seems to be a little further down the mountain; the horde is skittering off that way, tripping over themselves to answer the call.  
  
“Think they’re leaving?”  
  
“God, I hope so.”  
  
They don’t sleep for the rest of the night.  
  
[---]  
  
“Mother_fucker_.”  
  
The horde is still there.  
  
It’s not right up against the fence anymore; they’ve all migrated a little further down the mountain under the tree-cover. After careful observation, Boozer and Deacon creep down the stairs for the first time in days and scurry over to the fence to peek out and see how far away the horde has moved.  
  
It’s not far.  
  
“Think we could get past them?” Deacon asks, even though he already knows the answer.  
  
Boozer snorts. “I wouldn’t even want to try. Take the bikes, and they’ll be on us in seconds; sneak past on foot, and we’ll be stuck on the other side of a horde without our bikes.”  
  
He’s right. They can’t be out in the shit without their bikes nearby: That’s a good way to get killed, either by drifters, Rippers, or a swarm. And the freakers are still close enough that if Deacon and Boozer even rev their bikes in the confines of the fence the horde will come running.  
  
They’re still trapped; they’ve just got a little more room to starve in now.  
  
Deacon lets his head bump against the chain-link fence that’s kept them alive for all these days. “Fuuuuuck,” He drawls lowly.  
  
“At least we can use the outhouse now,” Boozer grunts.  
  
“At least there’s that.”  
  
[---]  
  
Another few days pass.  
  
Deacon and Boozer are down to the last of their food. Their situation is dire now: They need to get off the mountain and hunt or trade for food. If they don’t do it soon, they’ll be too weak to do it.  
  
“If I can sneak past the horde,” Boozer says, “I can draw them off with a distractor. I’ll pull them down the mountain and radio you when to come with your bike. We’ll double-up and see if we can’t go get some food. If we can’t get back up the mountain, then we find somewhere else to camp for the night."  
  
Deacon is skeptical. If anyone’s life has to be risked, he wants it to be his and not Boozer’s. “I don’t like this idea.”  
  
“Tough shit, we’re doing it.”  
  
(There’s really no talking to Boozer. Deacon figures Boozer probably feels the same about him.)  
  
Deacon waits on tenterhooks until he hears the freakers screeching and running off. He waits, rocking back and forth on the seat of his bike. “Come on Boozer, come on.”  
  
It’s a good twenty minutes after he stops hearing the freakers that Boozer’s voice comes breathlessly over the radio. “_Deac! We’re good! Come down to the bend!_”  
  
Deacon lets out a long breath of relief. “Thank fuck, Boozer. I’m on my way.”  
  
Boozer stands at a particular bend in the mountain’s path, and he swings himself onto the back of Deacon’s bike. He’s sweaty and breathless, but grinning. “Drew them off a good ways and ran all the way back here,” Boozer says. “Hopefully the fuckers will stay the hell away.”  
  
“God, I hope so.”  
  
Deacon revved his bike, and they left O’Leary Mountain for the first time in nearly three weeks.  
  
[---]  
  
They manage to kill two deer and a rabbit, all of which they have to skin and bag in the field; there’s no room on the bike to bring them back whole.  
  
They kill a few freakers and get some ammunition and fuel for the bikes from Copeland’s camp. “Heard there was a horde in the area,” Copeland remarks when he sees them. “Seen it lately, boys?”  
  
Deacon sniffs. “Eh. Seen a few more freakers than usual.” He doesn’t trust Copeland for shit and isn’t about to tell him where he and Boozer spend most of their nights.  
  
They roll back to the mountain in the night, wary of every freaker screech in the distance. “If we see more than ten freakers in close quarters,” Boozer says, “We turn back and find somewhere else to sleep.”  
  
“Agreed.”  
  
Deacon cruises up the hill, heart pounding all the way to the gate. They move his bike to the shed with Boozer’s, and they cautiously cook the meat they retrieved over a small fire. They’re starving and they want to devour most of it, but the fear that the horde could come back and trap them again inclines them to conserve it.  
  
Deacon sleeps a little that night, snapping awake whenever some noise in the distance triggers him to wake.  
  
When they wake up the next morning, the horde is still gone.  
  
The horde stays gone, and Deacon and Boozer are grateful.  
  
-End


End file.
